


Barren

by Aris



Series: Poetic Nonsense [7]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 3am thoughts, Angst, Gen, I guess???, poetic nonsense brought to you by Aris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's empty, a propped up costume without this all consuming nothing elongating in his marrow, pushing at his heart to beat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barren

Spirals have a tendency to be seen as going in a downward direction. It's certainly the expression that springs to mind - spiralling. Not quite crashing, nothing to fall onto to, and not quite falling, there being nothing to have fallen from. To jump from. 

He was sure, if it was up to him, he would have jumped.

There's something erotic to self pity, an inspiring, tranquil - narcotic, even - _feel_ to blaming yourself, the circumstance, seeing your situation in a bleak, harsh light that stretched on and on over the years of glares and embarrassments and finally to the star of the show; being here and now. His vision flickers, eyelashes all too visible as he focuses briefly on them; it's a sickeningly narcissistic pain that keeps him pinned to his bed, limbs heavy, the sensation that tells him _'you're a white middle class male you've never know real discrimination in your life'_ and it's true - god, so true. Kids at school used to call him a faggot, but a young boy was raped last week, and a week before that a girl in Islam was shot for wanting an education. Loki was tripped over in the corridor. A pub was set on fire. His homework was stolen. A suicide bomber hit her target. 

This darkness will creep in, despite the reasoning, the _'it could be worse'_ , and it acknowledges no boundaries, no coulds or shoulds. It curls, thick and musky, around his brain, spreading out to leaden his limbs and slide his eyes shut and leaves the every present feel of something pressing down on his chest in it's wake. If it ever leaves. He's reluctant to let it go, to feel a hollow rib cage and light limbs. He needs it for his words, his expression, he needs to skip on sleep and food and he needs the worried, patronising looks of teachers and parents. Self pity tempts the monster, the great nothing, but it soon ebbs away at the lack of real tragedy in his life. 

"Loki?" his heads more metal than bone when he lifts it to peer at his doorway, blurry eyed and blurry brained. Thor, and it's back to 0 - the ceiling swirls above him. Something about the housing boom, a cheap ceiling finish that looked nice enough, flashes through his mind till he's firmly back on blank. His neck feels stiff where it lies. How long ago did he lift his head, again? And oh, oh - Thor.

A warm hand runs through his hair, brushing lightly on his scalp, and it feel rough and comforting, a human melody if skin could sing. "Again, huh?" is all he says, after that, and it's so awe inspiring that this happens on a cycle, again and again and again and again until Thor can know straight away. It's timetable and boring and fascists would love it, wouldn't they? If everyone in the country just stopped for one day. One week. One month. Total control. Cold, corpse hands scramble on flesh, and it takes more time than it should for Loki to register the temperate against his hands, the twitches of living, and for him to recognise the pale, daggerlike things in front of him are his. Or are they? Everything belongs to the government, these days.

They're reminiscent of 80's movies and David Bowie clutching a microphone stand. Twiggy in a dress. A zombie bursting from the ground. Dead, too skinny. Is there such a thing? 

Thor finally sinks down next to him, properly, and suddenly hands don't matter because there's a whole new universe in front of him. A jumble of opinions and thoughts and preferences and experiences that are sweet, and new, and Loki licks his lips because he could never be so much. So full. He's empty, a propped up costume without this all consuming nothing elongating in his marrow, pushing at his heart to beat. He wants, desperately, suddenly, and buries his head in the crook of Thors neck, forgotten hands half buried beneath his own buried form. 

A pulse. He's so _barren_.

"It's okay, Loki."

He never said he wanted it to be.

**Author's Note:**

> All problems are genuine no matter race, gender or economical situation. Have a nice day


End file.
